


sacred texts on post-it notes

by echoes_of_realities



Category: Glee
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff, Just complete fluff, post-season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 18:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15321897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_realities/pseuds/echoes_of_realities
Summary: Santana had a shitty day at work. One of those days were everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. All she wants to do is go home and take a hot shower and get the remnants of tomato soup out of her hair, and then spend the rest of the evening cuddling with Brittany.Except, when she gets home, there is no sign of her wife. The only sign of life is Lord Tubbington wandering into the front hallway at the sound of the door slamming shut behind Santana. “Hey Tubbs. Where’s our girl?” Santana asks, but Lord Tubbington tips his head back and meows up at Santana, and Santana just rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know how you operate. Food first, answers later.”Or: Complete fluff without any plot besides the fact that I had an awful day at work.





	sacred texts on post-it notes

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Just a short fic because I work the next seven days and was inspired by The Worst Day at Work I’ve Ever Had.
> 
> Title from “Taste” by Sleeping at Last

Santana had a shitty day at work; one of those days were everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. 

It started out awful because Brittany left for work before Santana woke up so she didn’t even get to see her wife in the morning, which always makes her even more grumpy than normal. It was stupidly-sticky-hot even at seven thirty in the morning and Santana’s shirt was already sticking to her lower back by the time she started her shift at eight. But that was only the beginning of one awful thing after another; she got screamed and honked at for walking on the sidewalk (though that was a pretty normal incidence in Santana’s daily life so it didn’t really affect her mood, New York’s like that), the cook was late so Santana got the pleasant job of informing all the _in a hurry_ patrons that they’d have to wait, she got yelled at by a grumpy old man for giving him cutlery with water spots, the dishwasher broke down right in the middle of the lunch rush and they had to waste time hand washing everything, patrons got frustrated by the slow times and left awful tips, one of the other waitresses was training and the new hire ran bucket-of-dirty-dishes-first into Santana and broke a bunch of plates, another waitress called in sick so they were short staffed and Santana only got to take one of her breaks, some dumb volunteers for the Sunday afternoon entertainment shoved knives at her blade first and shallowly sliced open her right palm (which was honestly more annoying than painful), the waiter on the shift after hers came late so she had to stay even longer, and, to top it all off, when she bent down to pick up some crayons a kid dropped while she was leaving a bowl of soup fell on her head.

The only good thing about her day will be coming home to her wife, who would pout sympathetically and wrap her into the hug Santana so desperately needed. All she wants to do is go home and take a hot shower and get the remnants of tomato soup out of her hair, and then spend the rest of the evening cuddling with Brittany.

Except, when she gets home, there is no sign of her wife. Brittany worked this morning but had the rest of the day off, and she should have been puttering around the kitchen and making supper like she always does when she’s home first, except the apartment is empty. There’s no quiet music drifting from the kitchen, no pots and pans being moved around on the stove, no scent of spices filling the apartment, no creaking floor under dancing socked feet, and no _hey honey_ called through the apartment followed by a welcome home kiss. The only sign of life is Lord Tubbington wandering into the front hallway at the sound of the door slamming shut behind Santana.

“Hey Tubbs,” Santana says as the cat winds himself around Santana’s ankles, licking at the soup staining her pant leg, “Where’s our girl?” Lord Tubbington tips his head back and _meows_ up at Santana, and Santana just rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know how you operate. Food first, answers later.” Santana drops her keys and wallet and phone on the kitchen counter as Lord Tubbington follows her for his supper, purring the whole way because he knows food is coming. “You’d be the worst protector in the world if someone broke in here,” Santana continues conversationally, “I doubt you’d even lift a paw to save us.”

Lord Tubbington just _meows_ his agreement and waits impatiently for his supper. “Here you go, you dumb cat,” Santana mutters fondly. She turns and surveys the kitchen; Brittany’s coffee cup and cereal bowl are still sitting in the sink, but there’s a pile of mail on the table that wasn’t there this morning. Santana flips through the pile, sorting them into flyers and bank statements and bills to pay. Tubbs crunches his food loudly behind her, his tail twitching in happiness as he stuffs his face. Santana runs a hand through her hair but cringes as she hits the crusty, dried soup; she had tried to rinse some of it out in the bathroom before she left, but eventually she just gave up. Back in Lima, when she was insecure and scared, she would have never ever dared to show her face with soup dried in her hair, but here in New York, comfortable with herself and her life, she knows that she won’t even be the strangest person on the Subway today.

She groans and crosses the kitchen for her phone, intending to find out where her wife is and whether or not she has time for a shower before she comes home, when bright green catches her eye. There’s a frog shaped Post-it note stuck to the kitchen breakfast bar (because Brittany thinks they’re much cuter than the boring yellow ones, and who is Santana to argue with that logic), the sharpie words large and looping and familiar as Santana picks it up. _Went to pick up something for supper_ , the note reads, _Be back soon wifey. Love you, xoxo_.

Santana can’t help but smile at the note; even though Brittany isn’t even home right now, she still somehow manages to turn Santana’s whole shitty day around. Santana carefully presses the adhesive strip back into the counter and grins at it again before heading to their bedroom. She strips by the hamper, careful to make sure she doesn’t drip any of the day’s awfulness onto the carpet, and drapes her work clothes over the edge to deal with later before heading for a much needed shower. She spends longer than she usually would under the hot spray, washing away the day, and when she gets out she feels refreshed and human again.

Warm spices fill her nose as soon as Santana opens the bathroom door, and she can hear Brittany puttering around the kitchen now, closing cabinets and jiggling cutlery. Santana sheds her towel and pulls on a pair of sleep shorts and one of Brittany’s university hoodies; the sleeves fall down past her fingertips, but it’s soft and comfortable and it smells like Brittany every time she breathes in. Santana takes a quick detour back to the bathroom to throw her towel back onto the shower rod, because Brittany being annoyed at her for leaving another wet towel on the carpet would be just icing on a really terrible cake.

Lord Tubbington meets her at the bedroom door with a haughty yawn. Santana sticks her tongue out at him as he struts into their bedroom, making himself comfortable on his cat bed. Santana loves Tubbs, but she doesn’t feel the least bad in banning him from the bed; though it actually has less to do with Santana being strict when it comes to him and more to do with him being really fat and the bed being to high for him to jump onto.

Santana heads to the kitchen, pausing in the entryway and leaning against the wall with a soft smile. Brittany is dancing around the kitchen, humming along to the radio in the corner, doing that cute little butt wiggle that means she’s happy and relaxed. The source of the delicious scent is the chilli simmering on the stove while Brittany tidies up the kitchen, one of Santana’s favourite comfort meals, especially when it’s Brittany who’s making it. Brittany catches her out of the corner of her eye and her face stretches into a warm, radiant smile, her blue eyes sparkling and her freckled cheeks scrunched up; despite living in New York, the June sun still freckles Brittany’s skin the same way it did when they spent their summers living in their backyards from sunup to sundown back in Lima, and the familiar sun-speckled smile makes Santana fall in love with her all over again.

“Hey honey,” Brittany greets as she crosses the kitchen to Santana, and Santana melts with all the warmth of a kitten curling into a sunbeam. 

“Hey, Britt-Britt,” Santana murmurs. Brittany leans in to kiss her, and Santana’s hands fall to Brittany’s hips; she softens and tension she didn’t even realize was in her shoulders and back fades away under Brittany’s gentle ministrations. Brittany kisses her for so long that all of Santana’s annoyance at the day completely fades away until all that’s left are lips on hers and arms around her shoulders and _BrittanyBrittanyBrittany_. Everything, all of the irritable customers and frustrating staff and hot soup on her neck, simplifies and fades and Santana melts into Brittany’s arms.

Brittany kisses her until Santana pulls back, and then she kisses her even more, peppering kisses across her mouth and chin and cheeks. “Hi,” Santana whispers.

Brittany giggles and kisses her again. “Hi. How was your day?” she whispers back, her voice sweet and welcoming; she sounds like home and everything good in the world.

Santana groans and buries her face in Brittany’s chest. “Awful. But it’s better now.”

Brittany runs her hands over Santana’s back, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her lower back and the fingertips of her other hand probing underneath her damp hair and stroking the skin on the back of her neck, causing goosebumps to rise. “What was the worst part?” 

Santana smiles as she thinks, running over the shitty highlight reel of the day; it’s a game they’ve played since they were little, where they always ask about the worst and the best parts of bad days, because Brittany always believed, even at about five years old, no matter how bad something is, there’s always something good in return. “The soup bowl that fell on my head,” she decides. The entire day was one worse thing after another, but the feeling of warm soup soaking her hair and slipping down the back of her shirt collar definitely takes the cake.

“Aww, honey,” Brittany coos, pressing soft kisses to Santana’s temple. “That’s why you took such a long shower.” Santana nods against Brittany’s chest and breathes in deeply, the familiar scent of coconut, honeysuckle, and jasmine soothing her; they’re all scents that Santana’s associated with home for most of her life, Brittany’s shampoo and body wash and perfume. “And the best part?” Brittany asks.

Santana doesn’t even need a moment to think about her answer. “Coming home to you.”

Brittany chuckles. “But I wasn’t even here when you got home.”

Santana shrugs and nuzzles further into Brittany, her fingers slipping under the hem of Brittany’s shirt and finding solace in her wife’s warm skin. “It was a really shitty day,” Santana admits, “But just the thought of getting to go home to you got me through. And even if you weren’t actually here, that note you left just reminded me that no matter how awful my day is, I always have you, in some shape or form, to come home to.”

Brittany makes a pleased noise and, when Santana draws back to look up at her, she looks like she can’t quite believe Santana’s real, shaking her head with a soft smile, adoring and bright. “You’re cute,” she says, “I’m so glad we made a home together.”

Santana leans up to kiss Brittany around her smile.

They eat their chilli curled together on the couch, watching Netflix and making fun of the plot and continuity and poor writing until Santana’s eyes are drooping and she’s dozing off against Brittany’s shoulder. Brittany extracts herself from Santana for about ten minutes to clean up supper. She returns to a barely awake Santana, and presses a kiss to her forehead before carefully moving Santana around so she can slip in behind her, moulding herself to Santana’s back and snuggling into her. Santana clumsily strokes Brittany’s forearms where they curl around her stomach, sleepy and soft. 

“Love you, Britt-Britt,” Santana mumbles.

Brittany smiles into the mess of dark hair against her face, dropping kisses to Santana’s hairline. “Love you too, honey,” she whispers, but Santana is already asleep, her shitty day long forgotten in the circle of Brittany’s arms.

 


End file.
